


In Somnis Veritas

by PinkPenguinParade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, dunno if this is hc but it's me so probably, oh my poor broken boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 16:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20877407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkPenguinParade/pseuds/PinkPenguinParade
Summary: Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. "Bad dreams," he said. It wasn't a question. He'd seen it before, but never quite this bad."Yeah. Just... happens. When I sleep, sometimes. Nothing to worry about.""I, um... I get assignments, from time to time. To talk to people in their dreams. I know the bad ones. I didn't... I couldn't, Iwon'tstep into your dreams without your leave," Aziraphale continued. "But I could help. If you want."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for heavy angst and multiple instances of the fuck word.

The first time was during the Reign of Terror.

"The crepes were good, angel, but not worth losing your head over. Next time settle for some good solid mutton?"

"Oh, I know. And I really do tha--"

"Oi!" Crowley Looked at him.

"Hmm. I'm glad you were there, my dear."

"Just... stay out of France until this dies down, all right?"

They had retreated to the bookshop, or bookshop-to-be as the case was. Aziraphale was puttering about with shelving and tomes; arranging, rearranging, and occasionally shifting entire bookcases an apparently-important few inches.

Crowley sat against the wall, lanky and cross-legged, propped on a few cushions the angel had either dug or miracled up.

He had started out watching Aziraphale catalog and sort. This had quickly morphed into trying to figure out exactly what sort of madness the angel's shelving system was based on, and he was coming up empty.

"So, this bookshop... are you planning to _sell_ books in it? To people? Who will presumably want to be able to find anything ever?"

Aziraphale poked his head around some shelves. "I'm sorry? What was that?"

"Nothing." Crowley miracled himself another glass of Aziraphale's excellent wine.

He didn't even notice when the world slipped away.

***

He resurfaced with someone holding quite firmly onto his hands. "Crowley--Crowley! It's all right--you're here, my dear. You're safe."

It took him a moment to realize that his hands were being held because he was _fighting_, because he came out of his dreams rushed with adrenalin. He consciously forced himself to calm. "Sssorry... sorry. I'll...." He pulled his wrists away and Aziraphale let him, kneeling next to him on the shop floor. "Must have been more tired than I thought. I'll head home." He scrubbed one hand down his face, trying to will himself awake. 

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder--not enough to restrain him if he continued to try to get up, but enough to hold him for a moment and get his attention. "Bad dreams," he said. It wasn't a question. He'd seen it before, but never quite like this.

"Yeah. Just... happens. When I sleep, sometimes. Nothing to worry about."

"I, um..." Aziraphale shifted his weight, nervously. "I get assignments, from time to time. To talk to people in their dreams."

That's not a reason to be nervous, Crowley thought. He waited for the rest.

"I know the bad ones. I didn't... I couldn't, I _won't_ step into your dreams without your leave," Aziraphale continued. "But I could help. If you want."

Crowley's breath caught, his mind suddenly fracturing with a dozen responses. 

_You can't._

_You won't like what you see._

_How dare you?_

_You would do that for me?_

_Having an Angel in my head would do me in._

_You'd be killed, stepping into a demon's head._

_You couldn't fix them._

_They might be better if I just wasn't alone._

_Yes, please, anything._

And, most chillingly, _What if my nightmares make you Fall?_

He'd waited too long. Aziraphale let go of Crowley's shoulder. "I understand. It's a difficult thing, and I won't ask again." He stood, dusting off his trousers, and offered a hand up to Crowley. "Please remember, though, that you have only to say."

Crowley stared at his friend for a moment, stupid with sleep and nightmare and conflicting impulses, before taking the offered hand and letting himself be pulled up.

"Can I offer you some tea?"

"N... nah." He glanced to the window, which was dark. (How long had he slept, lulled in the quiet shop and the angel's company? Too long, too dangerous, too close to things he dare not say). "I'll walk home. The night air will do me good." He kept a smile on his face as he gathered his coat; he promised to drop in and help shelve some books as soon as Aziraphale figured out a shelving system he could explain to anyone else. "'Night, Aziraphale."

There was a small, sad smile on Aziraphale's face as he said, 'Good night, Crowley."

The fog was rolling in, cool and acrid with smoke. 'Do him good' was almost certainly an exaggeration if not an outright lie for this night air, but it did help clear his head.

The conflicting voices had mostly settled into, _That was kind, we can't ever, it would be horribly dangerous, I can't believe he would even offer._

And a tiny, tiny voice, almost (but definitely not entirely) lost in the rest, just adoring the hell out of his angel and muttering 'fuck fuck fuck' over and over again as he went back to his stylish, empty rooms.

*** 

It wasn't the last, of course.

Aziraphale was as good as his word--he never asked again, never put voice to that temptation. 

But the temptation was there. Neither of them spoke of it, but neither of them forgot it.

Crowley's habit of taking credit for the terrible things humanity did to each other--while it kept him largely out of trouble with downstairs--also meant that he needed to have verifiably _been_ in those places. Often, in those places, he was drinking heavily.

Aziraphale, as Heaven's agent on Earth, was similarly sent in the interests of thwarting, which he didn't actually do much of because Crowley hadn't done it in the first place and there were limits on how much thwarting he was allowed to do of actual humans.

And so they met, over and over and over again.

And over and over and over again, Crowley drank, and slept, and dreamed.

And over and over and over again, if Aziraphale was nearby, he would wake the demon, with careful touches or soothing words. 

And over and over and over again, they would not speak of it.

It almost earned a capital letter, in Crowley's mind. It was the Offer. He wanted it, he was terrified of it, and he never, ever spoke of it.

Famines and plagues and cleansings--oh, that was such a human word, 'cleansing', patting themselves on the back for their purity while their hands were drenched in blood. The Boer War, and another one for fun. The Great War, and then another one for fun, making them all add a 'First' to the war they thought would end all wars. 

(Well, humanity thought that. Crowley and Aziraphale, having watched humanity for far longer, knew it would be nothing of the sort. Humans would continue to fight, and the actual War to End All Wars wouldn't really care about humans at all.)

A tiny basket, with a tiny baby, and suddenly there was a timer on.

And they still didn't talk about it. 

The apocalypse that wasn't, and their respective trials. Or, Crowley thought sometimes, furiously, lack thereof. They were... not free, not exactly, but no longer bound.

They spent more time together, and more, with nothing to hide that hadn't been discovered. Crowley started taking more and more of his naps on the bookshop couch, for reasons he refused to put into words.

And they didn't talk about it, although every time Aziraphale woke Crowley with a touch, a calm voice, a firm hand on his shoulder, those blue eyes still held the question. 

***

The bookshop is burning. 

The bookshop is _burning_. 

And the angel of the bookshop isn't here--not where he needs to be, not where Crowley needs him, not on this plane, maybe not anywhere. 

(He can't quite tell whether it had started with Hellfire or not--sometimes he was sure it was, sometimes he could see candles and knew it for a more earthly flame. This time he can't tell, and the uncertainty might end him.)

The bookshop is burning, and he can't find his angel.

The firehose stream cuts through the flames, knocking him flat, wielded by a laughing fireman with Gabriel's face.

And he is covered in water and holiness, holiness, _burning_, right along with--

Crowley woke screaming just as Aziraphale got to him, the angel's touch calming him immediately. He closed his eyes and leaned into Aziraphale's hand, and he was just... done. 

"Yes," he said, panting, so tired of all of this. "Yes. Please. _Please_."

"Of course, dear," Aziraphale said. He didn't have to ask, of course he didn't. The Offer had been in his eyes every time for centuries.

He did ask a question Crowley _didn't_ expect, though. "Do you want to sleep without dreams, first?"

"More than anything," he breathed. 

The full implications and meaning behind the question didn't sink in until the angel leaned toward him, whispered, "Sleep well" with all the weight of angelic Will, and kissed his forehead.

The arms of sleep dragged him under before Aziraphale's lips left his skin.

***

The shift and creak of ancient bedsprings woke him up. He lay for a while without opening his eyes, happy and sated in a way he hadn't felt for... he wasn't even sure how long.

"Awake now, are we? How do you feel?" came Aziraphale's voice from quite nearby.

Crowley opened his eyes. He was in Aziraphale's bed in the little upstairs flat, although he barely recognized it with all the books moved off of it. 

Aziraphale himself sat against the headboard, propped by a number of pillows with a book in one hand and his mug in another. His coat and waistcoat were nowhere to be seen; his tie was untied and the top two buttons undone. The angel was giving him an appraising stare.

"Did I know you could do that?" Crowley said, surprised when his voice came out creaky. "I don't think I knew you could do that."

"How are you feeling?" the angel said again.

"Better. So much better." He stretched, muscles languid with rest, and smiled. "Haven't felt this rested in... ages. Possibly literal ages. How long did I sleep?"

"Thirteen years," Aziraphale said. "I did make sure to dust you regularly."

"What?" He bolted upright before he caught the twinkle in his angel's eye and sighed, flopping back dramatically onto the bed. "You're a terrible liar. How long has it been really?"

"About four days. I moved you upstairs after the first one, you were concerning the customers." Aziraphale carefully bookmarked his book, laid it on the table beside the bed. "There's more tea downstairs, and I can fix up some breakfast if you want."

"Breakfast sounds great. What time is it?"

"10:30 pm." 

"So more of a late supper." He pulled himself out of the bed and stopped. "Uh, Angel? I know I wasn't wearing stripey jimjams when you put me under."

Aziraphale stood and walked toward the door. "Those jeans could NOT be comfortable to sleep in. I don't understand how you even walk in them. I've _walked_ in them and I don't understand how you walk in them."

"Okay, but I was wearing them when I went to sleep and I'm not wearing them now."

"Oh, very well," Aziraphale said, and snapped his fingers. 

Crowley was dressed in his usual togs. There was no sign of the striped pajamas. "I didn't say I didn't like them, angel. I just like to know who's been dressing me while I sleep."

Aziraphale was already headed into the kitchen. "You know I wouldn't let anyone harm you," he said. "We have a few quite nice croissants and scones, I can prepare some eggs for you, or we can order in."

"Scones is fine," Crowley said absently, putting the kettle on and checking the tea cabinet. "Gunpowder or Darjeeling for you?"

"Hmm, neither. I think I'll switch toward cocoa for myself, but have whichever you want."

"Right," Crowley said, and pulled out the Darjeeling. "So how long have you been able to do that sleep thing?"

"All along, really. Cream?"

"Scones and cream are sacrosanct, you know that. Also jam if you have it, I'm famished." He stopped, looked at the angel. "I'm never famished. What the hell?"

"Side effect, probably. Takes humans that way, too. It can be very restorative, but that energy has to come from somewhere. You may feel hungry for a few days."

"And why didn't I know you could do that? That you could have done that at any time?"

"I don't..." Aziraphale cocked his head at him while preparing the scones. "I don't like to. It takes away... what is the word these days? It takes away _agency_. And short of staying to wake them, I can't actually control how long they sleep. It's all right for you, but humans aren't meant to sleep for four days."

"How did you even learn you could do it, then?" He took a bite of scone, messily dripping with jam and cream, and almost moaned. "This is the best thing _ever_. Did scones always taste like this?"

"As I don't know how they taste to you, I can't possibly answer that question," the angel said, loading up his own scone with jam and cream as well, "but I find them positively lovely." He bit in and sighed happily. "And ... well, battlefields, mostly. Hospitals and plagues. Heaven was quite clear about my use of miracles to interfere in human events. Namely, that I wasn't to do it unless directed. And wars are such human things, and so often all I was allowed to do for my dears was a dreamless, painless sleep at the end."

"So most of the time you use this like... like morphine?" Crowley finished the last bite, licking cream and jam off his fingers, and reached for another one.

"Not the analogy I would have chosen, dear. But probably apt. I suspect you could do it yourself, if you found yourself inclined. I have obviously avoided making it widely known, though."

"Why would it be--" Crowley started, then various unfortunate scenarios crowded into his head of the havoc that could be wrought just by humans knowing someone could magically grant peace and painlessness. Not to mention the consequences that could come from either angels or demons realizing that they could use... nonconsensual unconsciousness?

Crowley stuffed another bite of scone in his mouth without finishing that thought. It perhaps said something about his hunger that the rapid images of Hastur, Gabriel, and Beelzebub kissing him unconscious to rain destruction on him unimpeded did not keep him from really enjoying that scone.

"So, about... the other," Aziraphale said, between bits of scone.

"The dreams?"

"Quite." He took another bite. "I've dabbled, with humans, particularly when I was already tasked to deliver dream messages. I'm almost certain I can help with yours."

"I... I hope so," Crowley said, feeling almost naked for having to say it out loud. 

"I've been thinking about it, and I think you have a choice to make. You can take them as they come, napping nearby, and either sleeping here at night or, if you prefer, I could go to your flat with you."

"O-kay," said Crowley, who had assumed it would go something like that anyway.

"Or, should you wish, we can attempt to... attack them head on. I think. It's all very metaphysical and I don't know if it would actually work, but I had some time to think on it while you slept. It might be possible to concentrate it."

"...Would that speed it up?"

"I honestly have no idea. This will be quite different than anything I've tried before. And, of course, you're _not_ human, so it may go differently. Hmm." The kettle beeped, and Aziraphale popped the last of his scone into his mouth and stood up to arrange his cocoa and Crowley's tea.

Crowley thought for a moment about that 'not human' as Aziraphale handed him a mug full of steeping tea. "Aren't I? I mean, I know, we aren't. Neither one of us. But we kind of are, too. We live with humans, and we pick up human things. I'm pretty sure none of the other demons have this kind of nightmare, and I know none of the other angels have your tongue for wine."

Aziraphale nodded, briefly, in acknowledgement. "Still, though. I shouldn't like to try it with a human, even aside from, hmm. Consent issues. It would likely be very wearing. You and I are somewhat sterner stuff."

"Four days. That makes it... what, Saturday night?"

"Nearly Sunday, now, yes."

"You're closed in the morning."

"Yes. If you'd like some time to consider, that's perfectly fair."

"How do you feel?"

Aziraphale blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You watched over me for four days, angel. I know you don't generally sleep, but you do get tired, and don't pretend you don't. I've seen you _staggering_ tired." He started prepping a third scone. "How. Do. You. Feel?"

"Ah. Not to worry, my dear. Yes, I kept watch over you, but I find your presence... comforting. Relaxing." He smiled. "I'm quite well rested, if you're asking whether we might start soon."

"Not before I finish my tea, and maybe take out that last scone. Ooh, or you said there were croissants? A croissant would go down a treat--" He cut off, eyes widening. "Angel, what have you _done_ to me?"

***

After some discussion ("Familiarity does breed comfort, my dear!") they had decided that the couch would probably be best--Aziraphale sitting in his accustomed reading spot at the end, Crowley stretched out and propped on cushions, his head pillowed comfortably on Aziraphale's thigh. 

(He was certain the couch had not been long enough for that the last time he had napped on it, but he wasn't going to say anything if the angel wasn't.)

More discussion had involved safety precautions--water kept nearby, a small test to make sure Crowley could break out of Aziraphale's sleep suggestion if he needed to (which, once convinced it was possible, he was able to do without too much difficulty). An alarm, to keep either of them from completely losing track of things or getting stuck.

They settled down in warm lamplight and the familiar smell of books.

"Are you comfortable, my dear?" Aziraphale said, idly smoothing Crowley's hair.

"Uh... yes," Crowley said, leaning into the angel's hand. "I am both comfy and cozy. Don't stop doing that."

"Then I think the last thing I need to do is remind you that you may, and should, tap out if necessary. Say the word, and I should be able to bring us out; or you can, at any time."

"I will. I definitely do not did you just use a _wrestling metaphor?"_

"I beg pardon, did I not use it right? I'm afraid the only other thing I could think of was a safe word and that would require choosing one and remembering it in dreams and we've already gone through so much discussion, 'tap out' just seemed like a better choice."

Crowley's eyes had widened at hearing his angel say 'safe word'. "...Yes. I will tap out if I need to. Um... there may be... there may be things in my dreams you're not expecting."

"Of course. Dreams don't exist to be logical, my dear. And I like to think I'm not very shockable anymore." Aziraphale's hand continued moving slowly, soothingly in Crowley's hair. "Are you ready?"

_Not remotely_, Crowley thought, before remembering the dreams he'd been having lately. "Do it."

The angel's hand stopped moving, thumb resting in the middle of his forehead. "Sleep." There was a tingle, electric and warm, pulsing down through his body, and the bookshop went away.

***

The bookshop is burning.

The bookshop is burning, and he can't feel the angel anywhere, his angel, he's lost him--

"Aziraphale!" he shouts, screams, and there is no answer, only the pelting of the rain, the deafening howl of the flames as he breaks into a run--

A hand on his arm stops him. A figure to his right, in cream and blue.

Aziraphale is there. "Oh, my poor dear boy," he says, and takes Crowley's hand in his own. "I'm not in there. I'm right here."

"A... angel?" he says, quietly. He can't feel the angel anywhere, and still he can, right here, hand in his.

It can't possibly be his angel.

It is, unequivocally, his angel. 

The bookshop roars, top floor collapsing down, spewing fire and ash at them as they stand untouched by it.

"I'm so sorry, Crowley," Aziraphale says. "I wasn't there. I never knew... I should have known how badly this would have hurt you." He turns to the building. "My poor shop. My poor Crowley. I always did leave the hardest parts for you, didn't I?"

Crowley stares at him, can't stop staring at him. "This is... this is the dream," he says finally. "This is the dream. Isn't it?"

"It is." Aziraphale turns to him, taking both his hands and holding them tightly. He blinks his eyes once and the flames vanish, the shop standing whole and safe under a blue sky. "I'm here, Crowley. And I think for this one it's time to Wake--"

***

"--Up," he finished, blinking in the lamplight.

Crowley's eyes popped wide, breath coming quick and shallow. He felt wrung out, but also... 

"Better," he breathed. He reached up, over his head, to run a hand down Aziraphale's arm. "That was... that was better."

Aziraphale leaned forward, reaching for the pitcher of water. It clanked a little as he filled a glass, brought it back to his lips.

"Aziraphale?"

There was no answer as Aziraphale drank.

"Aziraphale." Crowley pushed himself up, grabbed Aziraphale's free hand. Felt the faint tremor. "Talk to me."

The angel finished the glass of water and held onto it. "Sorry, my dear. That was... that worked. Better than I had hoped, really." He glanced at the clock. "Seventeen minutes. I think we might set an alarm farther out."

"Stop. Angel, how are you?"

"I'm perfectly fine, my dear."

"You're not. Really you're not. You don't shake like this. We can stop--"

Aziraphale turned his hand in Crowley's so he could grasp back, and smiled. "I'll just need a moment. I wasn't there."

"You were there, it was better. It was better because you were there."

"When it burned, my dear," said the angel. "I wasn't there when it burned. You told me about it, but I-- It is quite a different thing to see it happening and feel the char, to know all my books are burning."

"I... I didn't think about that."

"I did. I just... I didn't expect to hit that first thing." He refilled his water glass, drinking more slowly this time. 

"Are you... are you sure? Really _sure_?"

"Do you think more will help?"

"Me? Yeh. But you get to stop if it's too much, too, 'kay angel? I've lived with some of these bastards for millennia, it won't hurt me more to go slow."

He was entirely unprepared for the soft, sad smile Aziraphale sent his way, even moreso for the gentle squeeze of his hand. "Then you shouldn't have to wait longer, you know."

***

There is water, everywhere. More than he has ever seen, more than when he walked all the way to the sea and couldn't see the opposite shore. More than anyone has ever seen.

There is nothing _but_ water.

And the rain hasn't let up.

His hair is plastered to his skin, floating around him. He started with a dozen children, more. Running with them for high ground, urging them to speeds that weren't quite human anymore--outrunning the rest of the humans, outrunning the rising waters. For a while.

He is down to one, clinging to his side, chilled and fading. All his demonic ingenuity couldn't keep them moving forever, couldn't hold them against the raging flood. Couldn't keep them from being torn from him.

All his demonic ingenuity couldn't make the waters stop, or keep a patch of ground above the flood.

He wants to believe She would stop--that She would let him save someone, *anyone*, that She would relent. (He knows better. His wings still ache sometimes, in the knowledge that She does not relent).

He keeps their heads above water with a constant outpouring of miracles.

And when he sees a storm-tossed wave cresting toward them, in the roar and howl of water and wind, he knows it won't be enough.

He has time for a breath--to say to the girl at his side, 'I'm sorry' or 'hold on' or even just 'I tried'--and he can't think of one useful thing before the waters are upon him and he can't hold on anymore.

She is torn from him, buffeted away as he tumbles end over end, gone from him. Gone. Gone.

He can't tell which way is up--cannot _breathe_, forgets for a moment that he doesn't need to.

Wouldn't need to, if he could summon enough miracle to regulate his body.

If he weren't so, so tired.

He has just enough consciousness left to turn into a water snake, and he lets the current tumble him before slowly striking up for the surface.

He does not expect the warmth of a hand, fingers rising beneath him. He does not expect or want the smell of Heaven, and automatically sinks his fangs into the fleshy base of the thumb. 

"I'm so sorry, Crowley. It took so long to find you." 

There is warmth, and dryness, and a feeling like the sun on his scales as blunt fingers carefully disengage his fangs. 

"I probably deserved that."

He collapses in the heat, twining exhausted through those fingers, slithering up a muscular arm. It is _unfair_ that this comes now, that salvation should come from the same source as his hate, but he cannot hate this, not now. Not, if he was honest, even then; not even while he raged at Heaven.

This one slice of Heaven he can't hate, not even while he was losing children one by one, but oh, he had tried.

"I'm so sorry. I couldn't have saved her by getting here earlier, but I would like to have been able to pretend." A finger slides down his scales, calm, soothing, warm. "I should have tried harder, even back then."

He twists, a snakey shrug--_We've both done awful things for head office, angel_\--then slithers up to a shoulder and drapes, drained, empty. The rain still pounds, outside this small bubble; the waves crash through them without touching them. 

He wraps himself around the tiny sun that is his angel.

\---

He wakes to the sound of mortars drilling through the air, whistling like a falling angel; of screams drilling through his head. Sometimes he can't tell them apart.

He wakes to the taste of mud and blood, the smell of gunpowder and gas.

He never wanted to be back here. He never wanted to be here in the first place.

The ground above him erupts in mud and bone and barbed wire, in screams and deafening silences, and he grabs the ladders. "We're going over the top," calls a voice, he can't tell where it's from. 

All he can do is grab onto the ladders.

A hand wraps around his--incongruously clean, incongruously bright.

Incongruously Aziraphale.

"Crowley," he says, softly. "You can be done, here."

"We're going over the top," he says, stupidly. "You can't be here. Why are you here? We're going over the top."

"There is no top, not anymore. You can be done," Aziraphale says again. "This war is done."

"This war will never be done." He's locked in, trying to break out, but the mortars keep exploding and _someone_ keeps shouting that they're going over the top and he can't think he can't think he can't _think_\--

Aziraphale reaches out to his face, slowly, like he was a skittish horse (like all horses he'd ever met, horses never liked him, but he'd never seen one that didn't adore Aziraphale, they leaned their cheeks into his touch and followed him anywhere).

He leans his cheek into the touch. "Angel?" he says, quietly, and the mortars and screams start to fade.

"I never figured out why you enlisted," Aziraphale says, rubbing muck off his face with one clean thumb.

Crowley starts to laugh, at that, although even he can hear the fatigue and hysteria cracking, bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to erupt like a falling mortar. "Oh, that was... it was the stupidest thing. Don't make me tell you."

"Orders from head office, I suppose. Although I can't imagine what you could have done to make things worse."

"Oh, no. Nothing to do with them, either." The cracks in his laughter are getting wider and he clutches onto Aziraphale. "Do you know what finally made me enlist, angel? Do you want to know?"

"You don't have to--"

"It was the feathers," he says, and falls to his knees. "It was the bloody, _fucking_ feathers, and I just couldn't take it anymore. Every time some little old lady passed me in the street she'd hand me a white feather and call me a coward. Every time."

Aziraphale kneels next to him, wraps strong arms around him.

"And every single one of them reminded me of you. Every. Damn. One. I couldn't move for people handing me angel feathers and telling me how awful I was, and every time I thought of you." Laughter fractures into sobs, wracking him, and he buries his face in the angel's chest. "You were working so hard for people, hiding everything you could from Heaven and everyone was calling you a coward and I, I, I finally enlisted just to make it shut up."

He realizes, after a while, that the war has disappeared; that he is clean and dry and can't smell anything but the bookish, inkish, sunlight scent of Aziraphale. Can't hear anything but the angel's soft voice, murmuring into his hair. "I think we should probably Wake--"

***

"--Up." 

He was wrapped in Aziraphale, surrounded by that sunlight glow that he could see even with his eyes closed. "Huh," he breathed, shakily. "I was never going to tell you that."

"I'm glad you did. I would rather know. That, that _nonsense_ with the feathers was hard on me, too." Aziraphale's arms tightened around him. "How do you feel?"

"...Better. But this was a hard one."

"I'm sorry, my dear, but I suspect they'll all be hard ones."

Crowley was silent a moment before finally shifting and cracking his eyes open. Sunlight filtered through the shop windows. "Might be time for a break, then," he said, as Aziraphale loosened his grip and they disentangled. He pulled on cheer like a raincoat. "Buy you breakfast? Or lunch?"

Aziraphale eyed him, unfooled, then stretched and glanced at the clock. "Could be either one, at this hour. I'd be delighted."

"Brunch it is. Did I ever tell you I invented brunch? One of my better ideas, I thought." Crowley unfolded himself, working his joints and trying to remember where he'd put his shoes.

"You did. Several times. I still don't see what's supposed to be evil about it," Aziraphale said as he retrieved his waistcoat and coat.

Crowley finally gave up and snapped his fingers, pulling his shoes from wherever they had been and, as a bonus, putting them on his feet. "That's the best part, innit? It doesn't feel evil. It's _insidious_."

"Or you just took credit for it because that way nobody could fault you for going out for brunch and you could call it a 'follow-up'," Aziraphale said fondly. "Because you're a wily serpent indeed."

"Oh, just for that, I am _definitely_ buying you brunch. 'Tempted an angel into a wicked brunch', that's how I will think of it forever."

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stands in Heaven, the way it used to be, the way he remembers--before the glass and shiny chrome and overeager overheads, when everything was light and love.
> 
> Almost everything.
> 
> He can feel the dissonance, sharper as he sees Gabriel and Michael coming toward him, faces grim, legions behind them.

His lungs are choking with black, greasy smoke, as he ducks and hides behind smouldering rubble that used to be Gomorrah. Sandalphon has been enjoying himself, and Crowley has no intention of being caught. 

Aziraphale is there. 

He turns to the angel--always there, just to his right--to look anywhere else that isn't at the sad, blackened heaps on the ground. 

Aziraphale takes his hand. "It's done. It's over. My poor dear boy."

"Were you here for this one, _angel?"_ he says, and it doesn't sound like an endearment, not now. Now he almost spits it, too tired, too full of venom to contain it.

"Look," says Aziraphale gently, nodding toward the hills.

He looks. A familiar figure kneels in buff-colored robes, streaked in soot, small with distance. 

Small with despair, with conflict, with sorrow.

"I was instructed to bear witness," Aziraphale murmurs. "I was the agent in the land, you know. I was sent to visit Abram. I was sent to help search for righteous people. I was... I was told how many things don't make you righteous, and I was made to bear witness."

"It wasn't just the evil people. There were so many people, just trying to survive. There were _children_ here."

"Apparently being children isn't the same as being righteous." The angel sits heavily on the sands. "If you feel like cursing, go right ahead. I certainly wanted to."

"So help me, if you say 'ineffable'--" 

"Not today. Today I only had room for sorrow, and a shame that I... I didn't understand. Not until much, much later."

He still has Aziraphale's hand in his, and he can feel the tremor. "I don't--" he says, but he can't think how he was going to finish it. So he closes his mouth and looks toward the figure on the hill, and bears witness.

\---

He stares at the paper in his hand, his commendation. It's not the first time. It won't be the last. He can't remember what this one is for--the Inquisition, Nanking, Cortez or Columbus or dozens of others--but he knows it by heart anyway.

There are bottles everywhere. He finds one that still has something in it, because he can still read some of the words and that means he hasn't drunk enough.

A hand closes over his, kindly. "It's not your fault."

"They all believed it was. Nobody even questioned." Dream-drunk isn't the same as drunk, he realizes, when the words come out clear. "Nobody said, 'that doesn't sound like him, really!' Nobody ever questions."

"I'm sorry, Crowley."

"You didn't even question," he says, turning to the angel. "You were always first in line to ask me if it was my work."

"I know. I'm sorry. I should have, every time. I should have let you know that I believed in you, every time, instead of hiding under outrage so I could pretend I didn't care as much as I do." Aziraphale reaches over and quietly removes the bottle from his hand. "I was afraid. I'm so sorry. I should have been better."

"Nobody ever asked." He slumps back, letting his head loll. "This one's bollocks. Let's Wake--"

*** 

"--Up," he finished. He was still caught in the dream, a little; his muscles drunk-languid, sleep-stretched. He tried to push himself up from the couch, managed it on the third try. Wavering but upright.

"Crowley--" Aziraphale started, blinking and shaking his head as he pulled himself into wakefulness as well.

"'m tired. Need a break." He stood for a moment until his body started figuring itself out, fumbled his sunglasses on and headed for the door, only wobbling a little.

"Crowley, don't go, you don't have to go," came the angel's voice behind him, and he knew if he turned around and saw that face, those blue eyes watching him, that he'd break--either he'd say something he didn't mean and ruin it all, or... or he'd say something he _did_ mean, and ruin it all. 

He wasn't even sure which was which, really. Or that they weren't the same thing.

"'ll pop round tomorrow, 'k?" he said instead, not looking around (oh, his heart was going to break if he looked around, and it was going to break if he didn't, and it was so unfair that it seemed to be breaking anyway). 

He could feel those eyes on him all the way to the door. 

It was late, or maybe early--he'd lost all track of time while they'd been doing this, couldn't even swear to what day it was. He felt wrecked, desperate to just stop, for a while, for however long it took until the world felt real again.

The Bentley was waiting for him patiently, gleaming in streetlights and neon as he got in. "Let's go home," he said quietly, and the engine purred to life.

His flat was dark and empty. He shucked off his clothes as he stumbled toward the bathroom, not caring where they fell, not bothering to turn on the lights. Dropped his glasses on the counter as he passed.

Some years ago he had put in a ludicrously lavish shower. He turned it on, plunging into the spray and turning up the heat until it was almost blistering. That was... almost right. He stayed there too long, letting the heat and steam work down into his body, until his muscles almost got that relaxation again and his skin was parboiled. His softest robe cradled the newly-tender skin, and he tried not to remember that it had been a gift from Aziraphale.

The plants had kept themselves up at least reasonably well. He watered them without bothering to shout at them, and only dimly registered their confusion.

The telly entirely failed to divert him, even after a shot or two of decent scotch. The light on his answering machine was steadily refusing to blink. Pacing to bleed off his energy just made him feel caged.

Nobody needed him. Nothing was coming close to taking away the babble in his mind.

Finally, at a loss, he flopped down on his bed and pulled a box out from underneath. It was full of old pulp novels, thrilling and exciting and just _terrible_, really. He had a soft spot for them that he'd never admitted, especially to the angel of the bookshop, who kept trying to introduce him to classics and edifying tomes and books that weren't nearly as funny and engaging. 

Every once in a while he would take a couple he'd already read and slip them into the open stock, just to see the flustered face and hear the 'hrmm!' noises that Aziraphale made when someone tried to buy _Romance for Hire_ or _Tryst With Terror_ or the like.

Except he wasn't thinking about Aziraphale right now.

_Lady, That's My Skull_ was, well, awful, really. But it was engagingly awful, and it let him do something with his mind other than just stew in his own thoughts and emotions, which were huge and itchy and painful and didn't seem to fit inside his skin.

He really, really never meant to fall asleep again.

***

He stands in Heaven, the way it used to be, the way he remembers--before the glass and shiny chrome and overeager overheads, when everything was light and love. 

Almost everything.

He can feel the dissonance, sharper as he sees Gabriel and Michael coming toward him, faces grim, legions behind them. 

Aziraphale is with them, holding his sword. Robed and feathered, magnificent and full of fury.

"Come to see me off, Angel?" he calls. His voice only breaks a little.

"I think so, yes," says a small voice just behind his left shoulder. He whirls.

Aziraphale is there--shirt collar open, tie askew--and Crowley realizes he is dreaming.

"Not this one. Okay? Not this one. Just... just go."

"I don't think I can." The angel's voice, too, trembles.

"You can. You have permission. It is my fondest wish that you bugger off, right now!"

"This _isn't your dream!"_

Everything halts, legions in mid-step, Gabriel arrested mid-smug. Even the light is frozen, brittle, containing nothing of what he remembers of Heaven.

"I-- You, angel?" 

Aziraphale nods, shakily. "I'm sorry."

"You weren't even there."

"I know."

He reaches out to the angel's face, barely touching. "We didn't even know each other."

"I know that, too." Aziraphale's hand comes up to his, and carefully pulls it away. "I still... I should have done something. Anything. And I _wouldn't have._"

"You can't know that."

"I can. I do--I was so scared, Crowley! Everything was awful and angels just kept _disappearing_ and we were told to just forget, like they never existed, like we hadn't loved them, like we weren't family. Like _you_ weren't family. Like you didn't matter. And I couldn't stand the thought of, of that happening to me, of being cut off. I would have done anything. Anything they asked, just then." He stops, glancing at the other Aziraphale, the angry one, the one who looks like they're ready to use that sword.

Crowley, for once in all of this, has no words.

"...I would have done this to you," Aziraphale goes on after a moment, small and miserable. "How many times have I done this to you?"

"This?" He almost laughs. "Never. Not once. And... too many times to count." He reaches out again.

Aziraphale steps back. "Stop. I don't--You don't comfort me. Not here. Not now. I don't deserve it."

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," Crowley says, and folds his angel into a hug. Aziraphale is stiff and trembling for a bit before collapsing into it.

The frozen air cracks. The legions of angels are starting to move, almost imperceptibly at first.

"Hey, angel. You want to get out of here? Gabe's waking up."

Aziraphale raises his head. "Just... just a moment."

"You sure? I'd really rather not be here for the wing-breaky bits." He keeps an eye on the angels, still mostly frozen but speeding up.

"I'm going. But I need to do it differently this time." Aziraphale straightens up, takes a breath. "I should have done this every time."

"What are you going to--" he says, and is cut off as Aziraphale grabs his hand and starts running, leaving him scrambling to catch up.

They reach an edge, too soon--he can't even say an edge in what, just that this is definitely an edge, and they both stop and turn. Gabriel and Michael and everyone are behind them, still advancing.

"What now, angel?"

"Now I'm going to do what I should have done," Aziraphale says, full of fear and uncertainty and fierce determination. "Come with me?"

The angel looks at him for a long moment, then glances at the approaching ranks of heaven.

And steps off the edge.

Crowley stares for half a second before diving after him. He folds in his wings, angles his body, and when that isn't enough he yanks the dream up by the hair until he can catch up with Aziraphale and grab onto him. "You _idiot!"_ he screams, over the rushing wind, past the tips of their wings starting to heat and flame. "What are you doing? You have to Wake--"

***

"Up!" he shouted, alone in his bed, coming to himself hoarsely. He stayed there panting for an eternity of three breaths before leaping up and heading for the door. (His very confused clothes materialized on him with a thought, then shrugged. It wasn't the first time.) 

The trip back to the bookshop took hours, he was sure of it, even if the Bentley's clock said it had been only about ten minutes. He screeched to a stop half on the sidewalk and strode through the bookshop door in the knowledge that it wouldn't _dare_ be locked for him right now.

"_Aziraphale!_"

The angel stepped out of the back room, rumpled and teary and grinning. "Crowley!" he said, with every evidence of delight. 

"Was that real?" He stalked toward the angel. "Was that you? How did you do that from here? What were you _thinking?"_

"I needed to be brave, and I was, I was brave for you--"

He grabbed Aziraphale's shoulders, almost shook him. "You idiot, you could have Fallen!"

"I know, because I wasn't afraid anymore, I knew you were there--"

"No!" he shouted, clutching. "You. Could. Have. _Fallen_! You think it didn't matter because it was just a dream? It's not about what you _do_, it's about what you _choose_!"

Guileless blue eyes met his. "I'm not afraid of that anymore."

"I am! You should be, because Falling is absolute rubbish! I can't be_lieve_ you wou--"

One soft finger touched his lips, shushing him. "I don't want to Fall, Crowley. I don't! But I can't--I spent so long, so afraid. I was so cruel, I was so cruel to you over and over because I was so afraid. And I don't have to be that scared, not anymore. I wonder if I ever did."

He stared blankly at his angel, still clutching on until Aziraphale moved his finger. "You don't want to Fall," he said, a little squeakier than he had planned, "and so you _launch yourself off the edge of Heaven?!_ I'm surprised you didn't flip Gabriel off while you were at it!"

Aziraphale actually giggled. "Would you be surprised to know that I thought about it?"

"Aside from the thought that everyone should be flipping off Gabriel, all the time, just because he deserves it? ...No, I don't suppose I would be." He took a long, shaky breath and let it out, tipped his head forward to rest it against Aziraphale's forehead. "You can't Fall, okay? You're not allowed. It... it _sucks_, and I don't want you to have to go through that." His eyes drifted closed. "You just can't."

"I don't think I will." 

Soft, strong hands came up to cradle the sides of Crowley's face, like he was something unutterably precious, and he heard a soft whine from his own throat.

"I still love Her, Crowley. I still want to be good for the world, and protect Her creations. I still have faith. Although some of that faith is in you, my dear."

Crowley laughed, despite himself, just a tiny chuckle that he didn't know could hurt so much, but once it was out he felt... better.

"If Heaven could make me Fall, well, I think they would have done it by now--washed their hands of me, made me Hell's problem, and never looked back. I'm certainly not welcome there. But I think only She can make me Fall. And I think... no, I know. I _know_ that if She ever does, for any reason...."

Aziraphale pulled his head back, still holding Crowley's face. "Open your eyes and look at me, please, Crowley."

He obliged, meeting the angel's eyes, still amazed to be held this close and this gently. 

"I know if She ever does, for any reason, that you will be there to catch me."

Crowley's breath caught, and he let go his grip on Aziraphale's shoulders in favor of wrapping one arm around his waist. "Don't go testing that, angel. I won't always be there to save you."

Aziraphale smiled fondly. "You will, though. I know you will," he said, and stretched up to kiss Crowley's forehead, gently, like a benediction. "You always have been. I... I haven't. But I hope to be better in future."

"Careful," he said, flushing, "last time you did that I slept for four days."

"Last time I did this you needed sleep," Aziraphale said. "This time, you need to be told that you are amazing, and precious, and that you astonish me, over and over again. I regret every moment I wasn't telling you what you mean to me, how wonderful you are. How much I believe in you."

He was, he thought briefly, not built for this. "I--"

"I should never have stopped telling you."

The top of his head was going to fly off, he was sure of it. He buried his face in Aziraphale's shoulder. "Angel, _staahp_," he said, trying to sort through whether he was more pleased or embarrassed (Pleased, as it happened, but he would never have admitted it to anyone. Except maybe Aziraphale, late at night, in a dark that hid his blushes).

"Oh, you definitely haven't been praised enough, my beautiful demon. I have a lot of catching up to do."

"Aaaugh" he said, muffled by shirt and shoulder. "I can feel you grinning, angel. New topic. How did you do that? We weren't even in the same part of the city. Are you going to be in all my dreams now?"

"Ah." Aziraphale nudged him gently until he disentangled and stood straight. "I'm... not sure. I did tell you this was uncharted territory. It may just be bleedover." He stepped over to the back room couch, sitting in his accustomed spot, and patted the cushions invitingly. "It will _probably_ fade when we're not in quite such, ahem, proximity."

Crowley followed him to the couch and flopped down dramatically, his head on the angel's lap. "Proximity, huh?"

"We have rather spent a lot of time together over the last several days."

"Yeah. Aside from the crippling nightmares it's been kinda nice. Hang on, how did I end up in your nightmare? How do you even _have_ nightmares? You don't sleep!"

"Not usually, no. But apparently now I... do? It appears that a love of sleep might be somewhat contagious."

Crowley sat bolt upright, turning to look at him, all relaxation gone. "You mean I'm _leaking_?! We can't do this again, we can't, we--" Yet again one of Aziraphale's fingers on his lips stopped him.

"You're not leaking, and I'm not going to Fall because I sleep sometimes. _Crowley_," Aziraphale went on, when he didn't relax at all. "This is hardly the first time I've had that nightmare, even if I don't sleep. It creeps up on me when I'm not paying attention. It rouses me out of a relaxing bath. Sleep is not necessary."

He stared at the angel for a moment before letting some of the tension _whoof_ out of his body. "Hell of a pair we are," he muttered, slouching back into the cushions.

"I believe the charming human understatement is 'we have issues'," Aziraphale replied. 

Crowley started laughing, at that. "Charming indeed."

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! Thanks for your patience; line editing is a pain when you're fighting a cold and a bored cat at the same time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wrapped both hands around his mug to warm them and steady himself. "I think... I think that one might have been me," he said, his voice small. "Sometimes I used to wonder, what Falling would do to me. Sometimes it became quite difficult to think of anything else."
> 
> Crowley drained his coffee and slid another arm around, holding him tight. "It's not real. It won't happen," he said.

That was not, of course, the end of it.

They did not lose proximity, as the days went on. Crowley continued to nap on the bookshop couch, where Aziraphale could come intervene if needed; more often than not now at the end of the day he would go upstairs to the flat to sleep. The old, musty bed was replaced with something from this century, the linens got regular airings and washings, and books on the actual bed were restricted to whatever Aziraphale was actively reading.

If they'd gone out for dinner, or seen a show, or just found themselves wandering around that part of town when it got late, they might go to Crowley's flat. Crowley would kip on his expansive, ridiculous bed; Aziraphale would read, or--now that he knew it existed--take advantage of the opulent shower to pamper himself. Or, sometimes, far more than he used to, sleep.

And their dreams mingled.

***

Aziraphale shakes out his wings, blacker than night and tipped in flame, and the wind they generate takes down nearby buildings.

He tosses a horned head and scrapes the ceiling plaster, or he opens eyes of desolation that burn the city to ash and cinders. He screams, with an empty, jagged hole in his chest where his Grace used to be, or he bursts out without warning, leathery wings ripping from his back. Or he doesn't change physically at all, just starts laughing while he takes Crowley apart molecule by molecule.

They cling together, iteration after iteration, watching their fears feed on each other until they finally manage to 

Wake Up.

Aziraphale shook, full-body shudders that threatened to tear him apart. Crowley pulled the covers up around him and disappeared without a word, returning a minute later with two mugs of screamingly black coffee, liberally laced with Irish whiskey. 

He handed one to Aziraphale, who took it with fumbling fingers and drank; he took a long draught of his own and slipped an arm around his shaking angel. "That was... that was a bad one."

Aziraphale nodded, wrapping both hands around his mug to warm them and steady himself. "I think... I think that one might have been me," he said, his voice small. "Sometimes I used to wonder, what Falling would do to me. Sometimes it became quite difficult to think of anything else."

Crowley drained his coffee and slid another arm around, holding him tight. "It's not real. It won't happen," he said. 

"Are you reassuring me, or yourself?"

The only answer was a squeeze that, for just a moment, was almost like being wrapped in snake. Aziraphale leaned into it, still shaking, and turned his head to deliver a small kiss into ember-bright hair.

They did not sleep again that night.

The next night, caught unaware by a doze while reading, Aziraphale started upright, wings out and convulsing before he could form the words he needed. Crowley took his arms. Asked with a calm voice, "Aziraphale. Tell me what you need, angel." Repeated it til the message got through.

"Check them," Aziraphale breathed. "I can't... I can't see them. Check them." His wingtips twitched, and he jumped when something knocked over and broke. "Please, I can't--"

"Shhh," said Crowley, and carefully checked over the gently-glowing feathers, murmuring as he did so. "All white, angel. All here. All white." He ran his hands down them, smoothing the feathers, petting them soothingly until Aziraphale began to relax and lean against him. They stayed that way for hours, waiting for the dawn.

On the third night Aziraphale leaned over and kissed Crowley gently, promise and invitation. 

Crowley's breath caught in his chest and he tried to remember how to let it out. "Angel?"

"I won't Fall," Aziraphale said. "I won't. I love you too much to Fall."

"I'm not sure that's a persuasive argument. I loved Her."

"I love Her, too. Not the way I love you. She hasn't made me Fall for loving you yet." He leaned in and kissed again, until they were both kissing. "I _want._ Do you want--"

"_Fuck_ yes," Crowley said. It didn't matter how the sentence would end, he wanted. He had wanted for so long.

They made love to each other, haltingly, carefully, each as though the other were made of spun sugar and might shatter at any moment.

It wasn't the same as sleep. But when sleep found them later, wrapped in each other, it came without dreams.

***

Time passed, as time does.

***

Crowley woke from nothing-colored dreams to find an angel wearing a groove in the floor. "Zziraphale?" he slurred. "'Sswrong?"

"They're there, so much," Aziraphale answered. Turn, pace, turn. "How do you turn them off?"

"Alcohol helps, sometimes. Not all the time," he said, blinking in the light and pushing himself upright on the edge of the bed. 

"What helps? My body wants sleep now, but I can't turn them _off_!"

"Well, last time I got an angel whammy that lasted four days," Crowley said.

The pacing stopped, and the angel in question suddenly knelt before him. "Try," he breathed.

"I've never done this before. I don't even know if I can."

"Please," Aziraphale said. 

His angel was asking, was _kneeling_ to him, and that undid him. "Okay," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'll try. Lie down, I don't want you falling."

Aziraphale did, crawling onto the bed and curling around him where he sat.

So much faith, Crowley thought, heart in his throat as he tried to remember how this went--a suggestion, backed up by celestial Will? Had that really been enough? Would it be now?

He gathered himself, made a knot of love and hope and want and peace and Will, and held it on his tongue.

Leaned down and kissed Aziraphale's temple, releasing it with the words, "Rest, and do not dream."

The angel's body went abruptly slack, and Crowley panicked for a moment before he took a deep, even breath, and another.

A few minutes' watching produced no changes. 

As an afterthought, Crowley snapped his fingers. Aziraphale's clothes materialized neatly folded on a chair, replaced by soft stripey pajamas. 

***

Aziraphale slept. 

Crowley watched over him for the first day, leaving only long enough to make sure there was food around for when he woke. That night, he crawled into bed and wrapped himself around Aziraphale, burying his face in candyfloss curls. He did not dream.

Aziraphale slept. 

Crowley opened the shop, according to the best sense he could make of his angel's posted opening hours. A few customers wandered in, bought some old paperbacks or browsed through the more expensive books. Nearly all of them asked where Mr. Fell was, and expressed their good wishes when Crowley, inventing madly, told them he was sleeping off a cold.

He got more pastries mid-morning, and cut the previous day's into chunks on a platter by the till. They were gone by the time he closed up.

Aziraphale slept.

The second day he opened the shop, he started out with the platter of day-old scones for visitors. He made signs for the shelves where the more rare and valuable books were--where Aziraphale was likely to have the books he didn't want to sell--stating that these might be negotiated when the proprietor was back, but were not currently for sale. 

A student came in with pens jammed into her hair, carrying a notebook bulging with copies, notes, and ephemera. She explained that Mr. Fell had been letting her read and study the books in the back, provided she was careful with them. Crowley waved her back with what was almost a smile. 

Aziraphale slept. 

Crowley, having utterly failed to make a useful schedule out of the posted hours, decided that ultimately they meant 'Open Whenever the Fuck We Feel Like It.' He opened whenever the fuck he felt like it. He put yesterday's pastries on the counter, replacing them with fresh in the kitchen.

The student's name was Liz. She dropped off an envelope at the till, brought him a coffee before disappearing into the history section. He brought her a scone from the kitchen when he went to close up and realized she'd been there all day, lost in old tomes.

He opened the envelope. It was a get-well card. He propped it on the bedside table before climbing into bed that night.

Aziraphale slept. 

Four days. Four days, Crowley thought, pacing. He'd slept for four days, and Aziraphale had kept watch. Somehow. Without going out of his mind, _somehow,_ Aziraphale had kept watch over him for four days and emerged unruffled at the end.

Crowley felt very ruffled. He woke often, to check on his ...patient, he supposed, for lack of a better word. 

Four days.

He opened the shop in the afternoon, for lack of anything better to do with his pent-up nervousness. Bought an entire box of old pulps, when someone came in looking to sell them, and entertained himself hiding them in utterly the wrong sections around the store (except, of course for the ones that looked the most fun. Those he stashed aside, for his own consumption).

He replaced the pastries, that evening--he'd forgotten to in the morning, so he didn't have quite the selection to choose from, but, well, damned if he wasn't going to have breads for his angel when he woke up.

Aziraphale slept. 

Crowley opened the shop. He'd already finished _Satan Was a Lesbian_ and was trying to figure out where he could shelve it to make the angel the most flustered on discovery.

He waved at Liz as she came in, and met Liz's girlfriend that afternoon. They commiserated over having to deal with the smell of old books all the time. She saw _Satan Was a Lesbian_ sitting on the counter and laughed until she had to sit down; he told her about his scavenger hunt. She spent some time happily hunting for awful old paperbacks while Liz finished up her research.

Aziraphale slept.

There were now several get-well cards propped on the night table. 

He was trying not to be frantic--what if he'd done it wrong, what if Aziraphale never woke? He'd said he had to stay to wake them, but he didn't say _how_. What if he did it wrong? What if Aziraphale wasn't _ready_? 

What if it didn't work?

He'd slept for nearly a century once, long swathes of sleep broken by short trips out, woken by war. What if his angel slept that long? It hadn't been a week, yet, not a week and he was going out of his mind. What would a century do to him?

He opened the shop. He bought pastries. He talked to Liz's girlfriend. He thumbed through _Do Not Murder Before Christmas_ between customers.

He didn't tear at his hair, although once he'd closed shop he did snap out his wings while he paced.

He climbed into bed, finally, and held on tight, murmuring well-wishes into his angel's hair.

Asking him, quietly and without compulsion, to please wake up.

***

Aziraphale dreams.

It has to be the angel's dream, Crowley thinks, opening his eyes in honey-colored light. He's almost knocked flat by the pressure of _love_ here, and he knows none of his dreams come with that kind of warmth. Not even the silly ones. Not even the ones where he's watching Aziraphale do his magic act and has to confront the fact that He Really Does Not Hate It. 

Not even the few precious ones, from before the end of the world, where he dreamt of being able to hold his angel in his arms, of being touched back with a fraction of this love.

He looks around in the overwhelming light until he sees a white and cream figure in the distance, almost lost in the glow--wait, no, adding to the glow. His angel is definitely glowing, gesturing animatedly to no-one he could see.

He starts walking. 

**Stay.**

The ground beneath him shakes. The _air_ shakes. He stops. He can no more not obey that Voice than he can wind back time. 

"Mother?" 

**Hello, Crowley.**

"Is this real?" 

**Real is perhaps not the question. It is happening.**

"Then why am _I_ here?"

**You were invited. He reached out for you, as he always does. And you came, as you always do.**

He tries again to take a step. Is unsurprised when he cannot.

**Patience, my Crowley.**

"Patience? It's been millennia. You cast me out!" He closes his eyes, to no effect whatsoever; the amber light and love shine straight through. "I used to practice what I would say to You, if I ever got to talk to You again. I... I don't remember, now. There was a lot of screaming into the darkness."

**I hear the screaming into the darkness, too.** She sounds almost amused, almost sad. **What would you say, now?**

"Now?" He thinks for a moment, straining against the nothing that held him. "Be kind to him. Please. He... he _loves_, and the other angels hate him for it. Please be kind to him."

**No screaming into the darkness?**

"Not a lot of darkness here." He shrugs. "No point screaming, if I know You're listening. And besides, You've heard it all before."

**And you would ask nothing for yourself?**

"That was for me." He sighs. "Ask on a different day, and you might get a different answer. Right now? Just this one. Please, be kind to him."

**You want me to give him to you?**

He remembers a trust that made him guardian over helplessness, a love that followed him from one nightmare to another to another. A quiet vigil for four days. A kiss in fragile darkness. "I think we've got that covered, actually."

He couldn't say why, or how, but he has the distinct impression that She is pleased. A tentative prod in Aziraphale's direction meets with the same resistance, though.

**You may join him soon. But his conversation is his to have, not yours. You may wait here, or you may wake up.**

He could stay here, forever, wrapped in this. It feels wonderful. He hasn't felt anything like it in oh, so long. 

But it's not quite right. It needs more cream and blue, just a hint of a stubborn streak. It needs a love of pleasure and the faintest whiff of paper and must. 

"Thanks," he says, although it almost breaks his heart to do it. "But he'll be hungry. I think I'll wake--"

***

"--Up," he said in the bed above the shop. There was still light in his eyes, though even the streetlights were dimming with morning. There was still love, pressing him flat to the bed. 

There was an angel, glowing softly in his arms, in _just_ the right shades of cream and blue.

Aziraphale was smiling, and crying, and still asleep. But Crowley was sure, this time, that it wouldn't last for too much longer. 

And until then, he wrapped himself tight around his angel, and waited.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third part done, and thanks for reading!
> 
> To the best of my (admittedly cursory) research, all the pulp titles are actual real ones, although thanks to an inventive friend I now have like 150 more fake ones in case I ever need them. Pulp titles are _awesome_
> 
> Thanks again to LastSaskatchewanPirate, and to all of y'all--this fandom is legit keeping me going these days and I love you all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks--Parts 2 and 3 are completed pending final brush-ups, will be posted soon
> 
> Thanks as always to the lovely LastSaskatchewanPirate for a quarter century of abetting and encouragement and occasionally being the devils on each others' shoulders. (also they beta'd this for me when I was in a tizzy of 'aaugh this isn't going the way I wanted is this crap is this too much?")


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